"I didn't expect this from you," rejoined Thames, resolutely. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. “May you have as much good fortune as you deserve, but not enough to make you forget us. “You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow. You have changed from the veriest butterfly to a woman—you wear different clothes, you have the air of another world. Try something. . . His eyes glowed beneath the glasses and his blue buttondown shirt was reflected in the lenses. ‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound. " "It is too late," returned Jack, sullenly; "I can't be honest if I would. She threw him his car keys.
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